Dripping heavily on the roof top
Were the eyes of the falling rains drops
Their thunderous sounds sent hearts
On a solemn journey of frost
The tracks in the roofs Were channeling
Their unfailing strength to it heavy downpours.
I heard from the Holy Book
I read from the lips of the Pastor on the pulpit of the Sunday
I heard from the talking radio on my Village fence
I took a stream of flashback from the old talking television of the Prophet
About the coming of the Lord.
What if the coming of the Lord
Would be like this dripping rains bathing the roofs in no mercy
What if tender hearts wouldn’t get hold of this coming time?
What if His coming wouldn’t be like a thief
But be caught in the deep darkness of armed robbery?
Silent nights breeds silent whimsical thoughts
Miracles not wanting the taste in sins
How can the magma at the hearts of the earth react to this thread yet to unfold?
The bleeding eyes of the rains kept me gripped
In the the thinking pool of His coming
A coming that sings like the reincarnation of a letter to the gods.
Drinking from the well of thoughts-flowing in furious
Stampeded by the running lines of how and when of suddendom
I looked staggering like a libation Kola to the gods
What if these scientists perhaps were right?
What if these swinging mountains of theories of evolution tends to be truth?
What if religion indeed becomes a blindly seeking emptiness?
The coming of the Lord
Which even the Son is of no knowing
Couldn’t that reveal the disproportion in our time zones?
Can it be possible for ‘Kintampo’ and Sydney pants under one statement?
What if tends our that…
Magic don’t work wonders
Miracles don’t save saints
Faith is not an alluring balm for believers
Sinners are destined for heaven
And the righteous for hell
But how would the righteous destined for the former blink His eyes?
How would the claiming saint on the wilderness of evangelism take it?
How would the preacher setting his voice 24/7
In vans, cabs and ‘trotros’ take this side shift?
Mysteries and realities talking in no understanding
In the irony of pounding in a mortar
Fictions and realities smoking their aroma from one pot of soup
Truth beholding lie
Lie betrothing truth
Time running furiously in vaporizing omen
With man suffering mercilessly at the fate of death.
What if it so happens that
The Sunday school tales in cold rapture tends to be unholy?
What if the sage in oral tradition becomes the rod for the judgement
Meandering it head in distance?
Man looks peeled in the face
Confusion of timeless skate snowing on his fathom.
Rains drops striking the roof of a heart
Like thunderbolts hitting clean sheets of a cloud
But, until the Father
Who holds in His mouth
The secret to this puzzle festooned in riddle speaks
Humanity perhaps, would have to
Keep swimming in this ocean
Of the coming of the Lord.
The Village Thinker © 2014